


The merry merry bells of Yule

by athenasdragon



Category: Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:41:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21914632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athenasdragon/pseuds/athenasdragon
Summary: Bunter looks after Peter on Christmas Eve, 1920, during an especially bad attack of nerves. Title and quotations from Tennyson's "In Memoriam XXVIII"
Relationships: Mervyn Bunter & Peter Wimsey
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26





	The merry merry bells of Yule

Bunter was sitting on the floor with his shirtsleeves rolled up—a position which would not normally be proper, but he found it excusable under the circumstances. It was one of Lord Peter’s bad days and he would not be left alone. All the rest of the family was occupied downstairs with their Christmas Eve celebrations, so he was assured an uninterrupted vigil. The fire, which was the only source of light in the room, kept the atmosphere hot and close. The shoes he was cleaning had already been polished since they were last worn, but Bunter was running out of things to tidy and brush and fold without stepping out of the room, and it didn’t help Lord Peter’s nerves when he simply sat and watched him.

“Bunter?” The voice was hoarse and thin, emanating from a shadowy pile of blankets swimming in the middle of the large bed.

Bunter straightened at the sound. “Yes, my lord?”

The blankets stirred, revealing a head of straw-blond hair plastered with sweat and two wide eyes which shone in the fire’s dull glow. “Is there singing?”

Bunter listened. He could hear the settling of coals in the fire, and when he strained he could make out Peter’s scraping breath. “I’m not certain, my—”

Before he could finish, Peter had slipped out of bed and was shrugging weakly into a dressing gown. Bunter scrambled to his feet, rolling down his sleeves as he did, and went to assist him, but Peter waved him away with a soft gesture.

Peter pushed back one heavy curtain and winced as even the moonlight was too bright for a moment. The two men stood, side by side, and looked out at the grounds. Snow laid in powdery drifts over the gardens like a quilt of silver and white. Down the hill where the drive circled around the lawn, a line of well-pruned firs hunched under the weight of the ice. The sky was clear and dark, illuminated by a nearly full moon and a scattered handful of winking stars.

“I hear singing,” Peter said again, his voice still quiet but less rough now. Bunter saw him suppress a shiver as he reached for the window latch and put out a hand to stop him.

“Allow me, my lord.”

Bunter opened the window a crack. Cold night air seeped in like water flooding a boat, and with it came the sound of distant song. Somewhere in the darkness, carolers were crunching through the snow and mangling their verses with laughter. Golden lantern light appeared for a moment through a distant hedge. Someone rang sleigh bells and the bright metal sound carried clear and sharp over the snow.

“Christmas Eve,” Peter murmured. “We’ll have a few hours of quiet.” His eyes strayed over the scene before him as though they did not see it. Bunter watched with concern while Peter swayed and put out one pale, long hand to catch himself on the windowsill. He blinked, shook his head almost imperceptibly, and turned to look at Bunter with clear eyes and a wry self-aware smile. “It’s roasting in here, isn’t it?”

Bunter did not reply.

“That’s all right. We’ll leave the window cracked for a minute. Air things out a little.” Peter tapped his musical fingers on the windowsill to keep time with the carolers. They were singing “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen,” a favorite of the duke’s. “Lovely night.”

“Indeed, my lord. The snow is quite festive.”

“My family is here? Celebrating?”

“Downstairs, my lord. I believe they finished supper some hours ago and are enjoying a few games before they retire. Would you like to join them?”

“No, no. I’m rather unfit for company yet.”

“God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” became “Good King Wenceslas,” which was followed by “Here We Come a-Wassailing” and a cheery rendition of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” Peter stood still except for his tapping fingers through them all. The carolers never came within sight but followed the road around the duke’s estate and trailed slowly away.

At last, a deep, merry church bell rang midnight. The sound seemed to startle Peter out of his reverie. He opened the window wider in a quick movement, disregarding Bunter’s disapproving exclamation, and leaned out until his head and shoulders protruded into the night and his breath steamed in the moonlight. Bunter could see his eyes shining.

“ _The merry merry bells of Yule,_ ” Peter proclaimed happily, retreating back indoors as silence fell. “Merry Christmas, Bunter.”

“Merry Christmas, my lord.”

Bunter shut the window as Peter sat back on his bed, exhausted by the outburst and beginning to shiver again. He knew they were both thinking of the poem from _In Memoriam_ which Peter had quoted. Its grief and surprised nostalgia were painfully familiar: _This year I slept and woke with pain, I almost wish’d no more to wake, And that my hold on life would break Before I heard those bells again._

Dwelling on those lines would do him no good. If Peter wished no more to wake, it was hardly Bunter’s place to inquire. He could read plenty in the circles under his eyes and the restlessness in his hands. He would be lying if he said he did not worry, but that fell to Peter’s family. He was not here to worry. He was here to do.

So he did.

He slid the dressing gown from Peter’s shoulders and tucked him back down among the covers. He latched the window tight and closed the curtains, leaving a narrow opening so that Peter could see the stars and the moon. He stirred the fire and set another log atop it to replace the warmth which had bled out of the window.

As he settled back down on the floor to scrub the same pair of shoes over again until they shone like mirrored glass, he saw that Peter’s lips were forming another part of the poem over and over again as he slipped back into his fitful half-consciousness: “ _Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace, Peace and goodwill, to all mankind._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> The poem Peter quotes is Tennyson's "In Memoriam XXVIII." This poem made me cry in class when we read it at the end of what had been an especially difficult year for me. In Memoriam can be found here: http://www.online-literature.com/tennyson/718/
> 
> The complete text of XXVIII is as follows:
> 
> The time draws near the birth of Christ:  
> The moon is hid; the night is still;  
> The Christmas bells from hill to hill  
> Answer each other in the mist.
> 
> Four voices of four hamlets round,  
> From far and near, on mead and moor,  
> Swell out and fail, as if a door  
> Were shut between me and the sound:
> 
> Each voice four changes on the wind,  
> That now dilate, and now decrease,  
> Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace,  
> Peace and goodwill, to all mankind.
> 
> This year I slept and woke with pain,  
> I almost wish'd no more to wake,  
> And that my hold on life would break  
> Before I heard those bells again:
> 
> But they my troubled spirit rule,  
> For they controll'd me when a boy;  
> They bring me sorrow touch'd with joy,  
> The merry merry bells of Yule.


End file.
